


Winterfell's Children

by Zi_Night



Series: A Tale of Surviving [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zi_Night/pseuds/Zi_Night
Summary: Five times Arthur Dayne bonded with Ned's children and the one time it wasn't Ned's child. A look into Arthur's time in Winterfell after the Rebellion.A part of of the A Tale of Surviving Series, during the time gaps in What We Do Before. Can be read alone but makes more sense after reading What We Do Before.





	Winterfell's Children

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that Arthur comes off as Sad Boy (TM) in What We Do Before, but I promise that isn't the whole personality I've given him/have planned for him.  
> An update on the next part of the series: I've already written three chapters of what I'm calling A Game of Dragons and the first chapter will be up next Thursday. It's still kinda slow but hopefully things will get easier after I get passed the start.

1, Robb

While Ned insisted on all his children being educated, Robb received special lessons to prepare him for when he became Lord of Winterfell. Some of those were taught by Luwin, others taught by Ned, and one he taught himself. He was in charge of teaching Robb battle strategy; though he had been quick to clarify that he was teaching Robb conflict resolution, not just battle strategy. There may come a time when Robb would need to defend his people and Ned did not want his son to be caught unaware.

At first the lessons had been clunky. He had no idea how to teach strategy to a child and Robb had been too focused on trying to give the response he thought Arthur wanted to truly learn. Once he got a handle on how to teach Robb and once Robb understood that the logic behind the answer mattered, more than the answer itself, the lessons became easier. Robb was a thoughtful, dutiful student and teaching him was always interesting. He also learned that Robb could be terrifyingly competent when he puts his mind to something.

When presented with a problem Robb immediately looked for solutions. He considered the information he was given to see how it could influence the result he wanted. He learned to find a balance between expectation and needs. He listened when advised and quickly realized that not all advisors had good advice. He knew how to manage men and flatter egos when needed. If it ever came to it, he was sure Robb would be a good commander.

Most of their lessons had been based on real circumstances. He presented the boy with examples from previous conflicts so that he would pick apart leadership success and failing. When they discussed Aegon’s Conquest Robb pointed out how it was Aegon’s three dragons that won the war, but when they covered the Faith Militant uprising he noticed how Maegor’s use of dragons only made the conflict worse and how dragons alone had not been enough to conquer Dorne. How the War of the Ninepenny Kings was won by Barristan Selmy cutting down the last Blackfyre, but the Conquest of Dorne was ended by marriage, not blood. If the boy found it odd that they never covered Robert’s Rebellion he never said anything about it.

Today they would cover the Kingswood Brotherhood. It would be odd talking about something he had been a part of, but there was an important lesson there he wanted Robb to learn. He gave the boy some background on the outlaws. He laid out how the outlaws had kidnapped nobles to ransom them back, how they had been sheltered by the smallfolk because they believed the outlaws were the only ones to care for them, how the outlaws had attacked the crown princess’s escort, and how that had what caused the king to send out some of the Kingsguard to deal with the outlaws.

“What are the things you are taking into consideration?”

Robb took a deep breath and considers his notes. “So, the question is how to find the brotherhood and how to handle them once they’ve been found.” The boy lost some of his cocksureness when it was just them two. He became more pensive and serious, more like his father. “The brotherhood takes nobles and is being protected by the smallfolk. You could try to set a trap escort in the hopes that the brotherhood attacks it, but it would be very risky and it gives the brotherhood the advantage of choosing when and how they attack. The best way to get to the brotherhood is through the smallfolk.”

“How would you do it?”

“The way Ser Arthur did it. The smallfolk defended the brotherhood because the brotherhood helped them, show them that the crown can do more to help them and win them over that way.”

“What other way could you deal with the smallfolk?”

Robb furrowed his brow in thought. “I guess you could intimidate or threaten them. Neither of those would be as successful as winning them over.”

“How do you think the king would want the situation dealt with?”

“Mad King Aerys?” Robb shuffled though his notes and said, “The king only dispatched the Kingsguard after the princess’s escort was attacked.” His face went from thoughtful to concerned. “He’d probably seen the attack as a slight. He’d probably want the Kingsguard to deal with the brotherhood, and the smallfolk protecting them, aggressively.”

“Should the Kingsguard have done what the king wanted?”

“No. Not only would it have been less effective, but it would have turned the smallfolk even more against the king.”

“What if their king commanded it of them?”

Robb looked conflicted. The Kingsguard was meant to serve the king, but to what end? It was a question all of them on King Aerys’s Kingsguard had struggled with. He wanted to see how Robb would handle this question. Eventually, Robb spoke up, “Knight are supposed to be honorable and paragons of justice. It wouldn’t be honorable or just to slaughter the smallfolk they are sworn to defend.”

“The Kingsguard are sworn to the king. Shouldn’t they be expected to be obedient?”

“They should serve the king. But not be blindly obedient. No one should be expected to be blindly obedient and a king should strive not to dishonor his knights with dishonorable tasks.”

“Good. A leader should remember that his soldiers are more than just pieces on a board. Each and every one of them is a man with a life outside of the war. Decisions concerning these lives should not be made lightly or carelessly.”

Robb leaned forward to ask him, “Do you really thing the Mad King commanded Ser Arthur to kill the smallfolk?”

“I don’t know.” He did know. King Aerys had not commanded them to kill the smallfolk, but there had been implications about smoking out the brotherhood. He had played oblivious, something that came easy to him, and had gone into the wood searching for other answers. When he had come back to present the smallfolk’s pleas, he waited until the king had been in a better mood. The encounter had taken all his mental fortitude and had filled him with anxious stress, but King Aerys had listened. He had appealed to the idealistic king who had once wanted to rebuild King’s Landing and it had made King Aerys generous in response. “But it doesn’t matter. That conflict has already been resolved and speculation won’t change anything.”

“I see what you did.” Robb grinned at him in a way that was one part smug and two parts proud. He didn’t respond, only raise his brow in question. “We didn’t even talk about the actual conflict between the Kingswood Brotherhood and the Kingsguard. This was so you could teach me a lesson about consequences and honor.” Robb schooled his face into something more serious. “I swear I’ll remember. War is more than just battle and a good leader needs to know his men and why they serve.”

2\. Sansa

When Ned received word of the crimes of Ser Jorah Mormont, all of Winterfell quickly followed. The halls came alive with gossip and rumors. He heard the maids whispering about how Mormont’s wife bewitched him and corrupted his honor. He heard the guards talk about how beautiful the woman was and how they understood why Mormont had lost his senses. He heard the older woman mourn the loss of sense and more vocal men curse his dishonor.

He didn’t take part in the talk. He didn’t know Mormont and he wasn’t one to engage in gossip. And yet, the most unexpected of people approached him to ask about the subject.

When Ned left to dispense justice, as was his duty as Warden of the North, he had been told to stay behind. To protect the man’s family, as per their original agreement. He had been taking a break in the courtyard when Sansa approached him. She faltered for a moment when he looked at her but approached after he waved her over.

“Ser Vorian?” Her voice is delicate and polite. Even at only seven years old Sansa is every bit the highborn lady she is expected to be.

“Sansa. How may I be of service.” She flusters a bit at his question. She gestures toward the space next to him and, at his nod, takes a seat.

She takes a moment. She adjusts her skirt and her posture. He sure it’s so she can have time to collect her thoughts, not because there is something wrong with her appearance. Once she seems satisfied she turns to him and says, “You’re a knight.”

It wasn’t a question, but she paused for so long that he felt like he had to respond. “I am.”

“And you’re a true knight, aren’t you?”

“A true knight?”

She grew lively at his question. “Yes, a true knight! Like the knights in the stories. The ones who are honorable, handsome, brave, and defenders of the innocent. Not like the knight father has left to deal with.”

_Ah_ , now he understood. “What have you heard about this knight.”

“I heard he forsook his vows!” Her hands waved passionately as she spoke. Sansa may have been every bit the southron lady her mother wanted her to be, but she also had northern wildness to her. “I heard that he put his lady wife in danger. That he put his men to the sword and sold them to slavers. That he’s stolen his lady wife and taken her from their home. That he is a terrible and ugly man who brought shame to the North.”

“That’s quite to story, but the truth is Ser Jorah,” her face scrunched at his use of Ser, “sold two criminals to a slaver. A crime, no doubt, but not of the magnitude you have heard. As for the rest, well, I only met Ser Jorah once and he was neither terrible nor ugly and very in love with his wife.”

He wondered if Sansa knew she was pouting. The girl reached out and grabbed his arm. “He may have been a knight, but he wasn’t a true knight. Not like you.”

There it was again. He had heard many call Arthur Dayne a true knight, and while the claim felt untrue he never fought anyone about it, but no one had ever called Vorian a true knight. “Sansa, why do you keep insisting I am a true knight?”

“Because you are. I know it.”

“Before coming to work for your father I was a hedge knight.”  
“So was Ser Duncan the Tall and he was good, honorable, and just. And father would not have brought you here if you weren’t the same.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

“And he’s told the story of how you helped defeat bandits who tried to assail him on the roads.”

“That I did.”

“And you didn’t follow my father to go dispense justice. Instead you stayed to protect his wife and children. To defend the innocents.”

“I have, but I am one man among the guard. If something were to happen I would not be sole defender.”

“You are handsome, everyone says so. A knight as handsome as you must be a true knight.” He felt his brow furrow. She said it with a certainty that only children could manage. As though being handsome was the only thing that mattered.

“You flatter me, but appearance doesn’t make a knight true. If anything, I’ve learned that an attractive man is forgiven of many sins.” He couldn’t help but think of himself and all his sins. And a traitorous part of his brain forced him to think of his late friend, Rhaegar. “And sometimes truth isn’t the beauty we want it to be.”

Sansa harrumphed at him. She wasn’t listening to him. She was young and idealistic, where he was jaded and melancholy. He might as well tell her that the stars were actually gemstones and the sea made of mermaid tears, for all she was listening to him. She didn’t want to hear that the world was not what she had dreamed it to be.

“I beg your pardon, Sansa. Many men grow grave as they age and it appears I am one of them.”

Sansa nodded her acceptance. If she was upset she didn’t let it show. She stood up and brushed dirt off her skirt. “It’s alright, Ser Vorian. You were only being honest.” She turned to walk away. Whether it was learning how to be a lady or giggling with her friends, there was always something for her to do.

“Sansa,” he called out. The girl had only gone a couple of steps away from him, but she still turned to face him to let him know he had her full attention. “I hope you are right. I hope you get to meet a knight who is as handsome as he is true.” The girl beamed at him, full of girlish joy. She walked away with a skip in her step. He did, truly, hope that Sansa got to meet a true knight, like the ones she dreamed about.

3\. Arya

Septa Mordane was of the opinion that Arya didn’t want to learn. That the reason she was so unruly during her lessons was because Arya was a bad student. He was of the opinion that the septa was a bad teacher. That the septa only knew how to teach one type of student and that type was the one who was easiest to teach. Arya could be difficult, but only if you tried to force something on her.

Arya was like Allyria in that regard. Allyria had not liked learning things that did not interest her. She would if absolutely necessary, but anything she felt forced to learn took longer than anything she had genuine interest in. Their septa had learned that instead of forcing Allyria to trudge through lessons, she could liven more tedious lessons by telling stories. Allyria would plan events and arrange seating while listening to the tales of the champions of the invited families.

He remembered that lesson when he came across little Arya by herself in one of the sitting rooms. She was staring down at a handkerchief in her hand like it had wronged her. The sewing supplies sitting next to her make him think that maybe it had wronged her. Still, it was odd that she was here alone. “Arya, what are you doing?”

She looked up at him before scowling down at the handkerchief. “I told the septa that I was bad at needlework. I told her that it would never be of use to me. She told mother and mother said that I was to stitch the symbol of our house on this. That I was to sit here until it was done. Once it’s done I’m supposed to give it to father and tell him I made it for him as a gift.”

He stepped close and saw that the cloth was bare. If he really focused he could see a hole or two were Arya had put a couple of stitches before pulling them out. “I’m sure he would appreciate anything you gave him.”

Arya shot him a look. She knew her father would be grateful of anything she gave him, but the girl had a certain level of pride. She didn’t want to give her father anything, she wanted to give him something good. She let out a sigh that seemed to come from her soul. “How am I supposed to stitch a direwolf on this.”

He looked through the supplies they had given her. It took a moment but he found a thin pencil tucked away there. “You know, there is a trick for detailed embroidery.” He handed her the pencil and she turned it over in her hands. “You can use this to draw on the cloth. Draw lightly and carefully. Then you can use those lines to guide your stitches.”

She hunched over the handkerchief. She took his words to heart and was painstakingly careful as she drew a direwolf on the cloth. “Why do you know about this?” He was grateful she didn’t turn up to look at him or she might have caught sight of the emotion that crossed over his face.

“As a hedge knight, you only have yourself to rely on. You end up doing a lot of things you never thought you’d do.” Not truly a lie but an evasion. He had begun to do things he had never thought he would do as a hedge knight, but sewing was not one of them. Ashara had convinced him to join her in her sewing lessons because she had insisted it was a practical skill, not just a womanly skill. She had shown him the trick because she had said she was tired of him complaining about having to guess what things looked like.

After she finished drawing she inspected her work. She held the handkerchief out towards him to see. Arya may not have been the best embroiderer, but she was a decent artist. The direwolf was appropriately sized and identifiable. He handed it back to her and said, “This is very good.”

“Now to ruin it with stitches.”

“As long as you follow your outline you should be fine.”

She began to dig around her supplies and pulled out a gray spool of thread. She prepped her needle and picked up the square of cloth. She looked at him and chewed on her lip for a moment. “Will you stay,” she asked and looked ready for a refusal.

“If you’d like.” She smiled at him while he pulled a chair up to the table. He sat at an angle so that her swinging legs wouldn’t catch him in the shin. “What do ladies talk about while they sew?”

Arya stuck her first prick to the cloth. “Boring things. Mean things. Embarrassing things.” A wicked twinkle appeared in the girl’s eye. “When Septa Mordane isn’t paying attention, Jeyne likes to talk about you.” His sister used to complain that everyone wanted to talk to her about him.

“And what do you talk about?”

“Nothing. Not unless I have to.” There was a sadness there. Arya took pride in who she was, in her willfulness, but no one liked to feel alone. The other highborn girls would look at her and see someone odd, someone they didn’t want to be. She constantly faced the struggle of who she was not being the person people wanted her to be.

“How about a story?”

“A Dornish one?” Arya loved hearing stories about Dorne. There was no place more different from the North than Dorne and that made it mystical and enchanting to her. To hear of a land that was burning hot, when all she knew was snow. Of a land that remain unconquered, even in the face of dragons. Of a land where three different cultures had met and made peace.

“Do I tell any others?” She laughed and he couldn’t help but smile. “I will tell you the story of the woman who made Dorne what it is now. Of Queen Nymeria, who sailed across the world to save her people.”

4\. Bran

Baby Bran was happiest when he was as far from the ground as possible. As soon as the boy had learned that raising his arms meant people would pick him up, he would spend his days swinging his arms up like an impassioned septon. His favorite game was the one where his father would toss him into the air. The boy would squeal with glee up until his father set him back on the floor, then he would pout in obvious offense.

His first words had been up. And his second and third and twentieth. Once the boy developed the upper arm strength necessary, he pulled himself out of his crib so he could crawl around the nursery. Luckily, his mother had been the one watching over him at the time so no one got in trouble for the toddler’s escape attempt. Afterwards, the bars on his crib were quickly traded out for sheer, unscalable walls. He could have sworn that, once Bran understood what the change had done, the boy looked at the carpenter in betrayal.

Once he was a bit older, his obsession with height became more obvious. If left unattended he would toddle to the stairs and try to pull himself up. His favorite mode of transport was sitting on a man’s shoulders, the taller the better. He always wanted to reach the top of the towers around Winterfell and would stand on the tips of his toes to try and peer out the windows there. Once he had asked Bran what he was hoping to see and the boy had told him he wanted to see the end of the world. Another time Bran had told him he had dreams of flying,

Some had believed that little Bran’s obsession would pass. That it would fade as other interests grew. When the boy grew interested in knights, especially those of the Kingsguard, many thought that would be the end of Bran trying to fly. Instead the two interests coexisted. When the boy wasn’t dreaming of great knights he was climbing to try and reach the sky.

Once Bran had started climbing, Lady Catelyn had turned to anyone and everyone to try and get the boy to stop. She had even turned to him, which was telling of her desperation. Lady Catelyn had never grown to like him. If it was because he was a Dornish reminder, a supposed bastard, or a defender of Jon Snow, he didn’t know. Still he knew better than to make Lady Stark his enemy and was nothing but polite and courteous with her.

While he had told her he would try his best to get the boy to stop, he didn’t think anything would stop the boy from climbing. Luwin and Old Nan had already tried scarring the boy, his father had tried punishment and appealing to the Old Gods, his mother had tried guilt, and the guards had tried chasing Bran down. Only one of those had worked and not for very long. So, instead of trying to get the boy to stop he would try to keep the boy from the task. If Bran couldn’t be stopped, maybe he could be distracted.

Once, after successfully pulling Bran from off a wall, he had decided to placate the sulking boy by telling him a story about Ser Duncan the Tall. Rhaegar had loved reading and the exploits of Ser Duncan had been some of his favorite stories. Bran seemed to like them just as much as Rhaegar had. Quickly the boy stopped sulking and was instead excitedly asking for more details. After a number of similar instances, Bran had started seeking him out for knightly stories.

Today, when Bran ran up to him with purpose, he felt it safe to assume that it was for a story. When he got close the boy raised his hand and shouted “Vorian!” as though he ran the risk of being missed. He raised his arm in response and waited patiently for Bran to reach him.

“Vorian! Will you tell me a story?”

“Of course. What kind of story would you like?”

“A story about knights!” The boy hummed in thought. “A story about a mystery knight!”

“Alright, let me think for a moment.” The first mystery knight that came to mind was one he wasn’t allowed to speak of. The story of the Knight of Laughing Tree was one that ended with death and tragedy. Even if the ending wasn’t tragic, he had sworn to Lord Stark that he would not speak of Lyanna and he didn’t think he could tell the story without including the unmasking. Rhaegar had fallen in love with the bold girl who had been disguised underneath. In one of her more bitter moments Lyanna had wished that Rhaegar had not found her and, in that moment, he could help but agree.

Pushing aside the Knight of Laughing Tree, he thought of some of the other mystery knights he knew. He thought of the Gallows Knight but he had already told Bran most of the story of Ser Duncan. He thought of the Dragonknight but he only knew little of the tourney in which the knight had gone in disguise. He thought of the Serpent in Scarlet but that tourney was about more than a single mystery knight. Instead he settled on a mystery knight whose story he had heard from the knight himself.

“How about I tell you about a mystery knight who wasn’t even a knight during his tourney?”

He spent the afternoon telling Bran about Ser Barristan Selmy. Of Selmy’s first tourney when he was still a squire, of his knighthood at sixteen, of his service during the war, and of his time as a Kingsguard.

“He’s Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Barristan was the only one of them left still wearing the white cloak. Jaime had disappeared after the rebellion and he was here, protecting his prince’s surviving son.

5\. Rickon

All of Ned’s children had displayed easy temperaments, until Rickon. Not to say that Rickon was a difficult baby, most times he was just as playful as his siblings, but when the boy was upset he made sure everyone knew it. The babe had lungs like a rooster and wasn’t afraid to use them. The boy would only calm down when handle by his family, Maester Luwin, and, surprisingly, himself. When someone had remarked on Rickon’s wildness Ned had said that it was the wolf’s blood that ran through the boy’s veins, and he had never seen the man so proud and sad at the same time.

As the babe grew into a toddler the screaming stopped, but not the wildness. The boy remained stubborn and willful. He did what pleased him. Luckily, pleasing his family pleased him. His family had quickly picked up on this and learned that praising him for doing what they wanted him to do was more effective than scolding him for doing wrong. It didn’t stop him from doing things he wasn’t supposed to, but it did mean he would gladly do things he was supposed to do.

Today, Ned’s children had decided they wanted to play in the godswood. How they had all come to the agreement to play was beyond him, and yet here they all were. They had paired off into twos and raced off to build forts. Arya had paired off with Jon, Sansa with Bran, and Rickon with Robb, Theon had gone out to Winter Town which allowed the teams to be even. He watched as the children piled snow into walls and stockpiled snowballs. The space was filled with animated chatter and there was a palpable air of excitement.

He didn’t know when they came up with a time limit, or how they all knew when it was over, but they all came up from their forts at the same time to pelt each other with snowballs. There was a chorus of shrieks and cheers as snowballs found their mark. One of Sansa’s snowballs exploded against the side of Jon’s head, Arya’s caught Robb square in the chest, and Rickon’s first splattered against one of the walls, but the second clipped Sansa’s head and sprinkled her hair with white.

When the other two groups realized that Robb and Rickon had avoided most of the onslaught they focus them down. Robb threw himself in front of Rickon and shielded him from being pelted with snow. A particularly strong blow knocked down Jon’s side of their wall and the boy yelped as he was assaulted with snow. Seemingly the winners, Sansa swept Bran into a hug and danced around with him in her arms.

Apparently not done, the children moved to the center of their makeshift battlefield. They began to make clumps of snow and started to roll them into balls. He stepped along the line Rickon and Bran’s sphere left behind it. These boys were the most impulsive of the bunch, so he dare not take his eyes of them. They walked circles around trees and roots until the globe was almost as tall as Rickon. When Rickon got tired of pushing, he plopped himself on the ground and looked at him with large eyes.

“You can’t just leave your brother to push that thing all by himself.”

Rickon crossed his arms and pouted up at him. “You push.”

Bran turned to look at him. “You should, Vorian. Without Rickon it’s too heavy for me and it’s only getting heavier.”

Rickon nodded aggressively. “Fine, but you,” and he pointed at Rickon, “will ride on my back. I won’t have you wandering on your own.”

He crouched down to help Rickon onto his back. The boy used fistfuls of his cloak to help him up and wrapped his arms around his throat. After adjusting his arms, and telling Rickon to hold on with his fists not his elbows, to make sure the boy wasn’t choking him, they were off. Bran continued to push under the bridge of him arms, but he was sure it was more for show than anything else.

When they got back, they found that the others had also rolled giant snow globes. The girls immediately begin giving orders, so that their globes can be made into a snowman. Rickon wiggles off his back to try and help, but the older boys are the ones doing most of the work. Sansa and Arya had gathered sticks and rocks and they give some to the younger boys to design the snowman.

The resulting snowman is a little taller than Arya. He has thin stick arms, a red leaf mantle over his shoulders, and a circle pebble ‘clasp’ holding the mantle shut. They give Rickon the honor of giving the snowman his face. He picks the boy up from under his arms, so that Rickon can give it two pebble eyes, a pinecone nose, and an ident smile and dimples.

They play for a bit longer after that. Bran gets halfway up a tree before he plucks him off. He manages to convince Bran to chase his younger brother around instead. The older boys pick up sticks and persuade the younger boys to pretend spar with them. On the sidelines, Sansa cheers for her brothers and Arya is a bit too focused on the instruction the older boys are giving. Rickon’s strikes are undisciplined, he treats his stick as a club more than a sword, but what else can be expected from a four-year-old. Bran has potential, his basics are solid, but he lacks the instinct and patience years of training give.

Eventually, the children get tired. Shamelessly, Rickon walks over to him and raises his arms so that he’ll pick him up. The boy is in his arms for no more than a minute, before he is sound asleep. The rest of the children trudge in front of him as they walk aback inside. Their mother catches one look at them before sending them off to bathe. Rickon wakes long enough to be bathed, dried, and clothed before asking to be lifted again and falling asleep. Rickon gives him a sleepy thank you as he sets him to bed and leaves.

+1. Jon

There was a seriousness to Jon. Even as a baby, the boy had been quiet and solemn. It felt like the boy was waiting before he reacted. Like he refused to let himself be himself, until he had thoroughly observed the situation. The boy was always watching.

It was easier to notice when Jon was younger. The boy was prone to hesitating and fumbling around adults. Not so much that it was overtly noticeable, but enough for someone who was paying attention to notice. As Jon got older, the hesitation and awkwardness got shorter and shorter until it was completely gone, but he was sure that the vigilance was still there. That Jon was taking careful note of what the people he interacted with expected of him.

That vigilance had allowed Jon to know people. To understand people as though they were sigils on banners and, like sigils on banner, he learned to interpret what he saw until he knew what it meant. He couldn’t help but wonder what Jon had read him for. If Jon only saw the false man he presented or if he had seen through his facade and caught glimpses of the man hiding underneath. He wondered how much of a difference there was between the two.

Since he was so used to seeing Jon walk around with a serious face, it was incredibly surprising when he saw the boy marching around looking as close to furious as his features would allow. Jon makes a beeline towards him after catching sight of him. It’s only his years of training that keep him from being unnerved, since a man walking towards him like that usually meant trouble.

“Vorian,” surprisingly still polite even though he seems upset. “Are you busy or are you free to spar?”

“I am free.” The second the words were out of his mouth the boy was marching away. He followed at a much more sedate pace. He quickly realized they weren’t heading towards the courtyard, but the godswood. It seemed Jon didn’t want an audience for their spar.

When they arrived at the godswood, Jon still seemed irritated. When he had been a boy back at Starfall his master-at-arms would refuse to train him when he was angry. The man had said that it was a dangerous thing to encourage men to wield steel when they were angry, so he refused to do it. He had hoped that Jon would have calmed down on the walk here, but it seemed that wasn’t the case and he had already agreed to the spar.

Jon had apparently equipped himself with blunted longswords before looking for him, so he tosses him one and slips into a battle-ready position. He slips into his own stance and waits. That was another thing his master-at-arms had instilled in him. Combat and sparring were two different beasts and where combat was chaos and adrenaline, sparring was supposed to be controlled. In a spar, a man could best learn if he was patient and waited for his opponent to engage first. Either Jon hadn’t internalized that lesson or was too angry to attempt that.

Jon wasted no time in rushing him. The boy opened with an aggressive set of strikes that he countered with parries. He could feel the blows rattle through his left arm. If he had wanted to, he would have been able to disarm Jon during those blows, because they had been sloppy, butcher’s cuts. He sends out a few exploratory taps that Jon bats away. They continue this dance, with Jon delivering hacking blows and him giving back cautious swipes. When Jon comes at him with something that resembles what he should be doing, he lets his blade slip from his fingers. And they do that again. And again. And again.

After the fourth time Arthur loses his sword, Jon steps out of his stance. Jon looks him over and his eyes narrow. “You’re letting me win.”

“Am I?” His question earned him a scowl. There was no quicker way than to hurt a man’s pride than by letting him win, and there was no quicker way to make him lose his taste in fighting. Jon whirled away from him in a huff. The boy paced for a moment before slumping into himself. “Are you going to tell me what upset you?”

“It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be as upset as I am.”

“Yet you are. What was it?”

“Arya was worried that she was a bastard. I told her she wasn’t but I shouldn’t have to have told her.”

He couldn’t fathom why Arya would think she was a bastard. “Did she tell you why she thought so?”

“Because she looks more like me than her other siblings.” Jon gives a full body shake, like an upset dog. “If she was a bastard she’d know. Other people make it clear when you’re a bastard.” He wasn’t wrong. He and Jon were the only consistent bastards in Winterfell and they were treated differently. It didn’t bother him as much as Jon because he was used to being playing oblivious to the words of other people. And because he knew he wasn’t a bastard.

“It’s not stupid to be upset.”

“It’s not fair to Arya to be upset with her over something she doesn’t understand.”

“I don’t think you are upset with Arya. You said it yourself, she doesn’t understand what you are going through. I would say you are upset with your circumstances.”

The boy nodded sagely. He brooded a bit in silence before shifting into a battle stance. This time Jon was clearheaded and patient. Their continued spar was more a meditation than a fight. While they dance around each other Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if Jon would forgive him once he knew of his parentage. Living a lie was different when it was one of your own choosing. Not only had Jon not chosen to live his lie but he had suffered much under that lie. The longer Ned waited to tell Jon the more it would hurt.


End file.
